


Sunday Nights, Monday Mornings (Ad Libitum)

by Clair de Lune (clair_de_lune)



Series: The Sum of the Parts 'verse [3]
Category: Prison Break
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Ending, F/M, Incest, M/M, Polyamory, Post-Series, Sibling Incest, Threesome, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-22
Updated: 2012-04-22
Packaged: 2017-11-04 03:10:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/389039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clair_de_lune/pseuds/Clair%20de%20Lune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sunday nights are Sara and Lincoln’s. Michael isn’t happy about that; or maybe he is – it’s not as if he could see everything in black and white here. (Post-series, alternate canon.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sunday Nights, Monday Mornings (Ad Libitum)

Right before dawn, Lincoln and Sara make love. Michael tosses around in his bed and pretends to himself that he’s not listening but has no other choice than hearing.

The bedroom they sleep in is on the other side of the small hallway, a mere few feet away. The door is half open because Sara still has to grab the concept of shutting it properly when she gets up to pee in the middle of the night, and Michael never closes his on the nights he’s alone. They’re not trying to hide what they’re doing, anyway. So he _hears_ and understands what’s going on the second it starts.

It’s Sara who initiates, Michael knows that for sure because it’s the moment of the night she likes best. Right before dawn, when the sky is still dark but a pinkish light is starting to rise. She loves it then, rouses from sleep and seeks warmth and kisses on instinct, like a little animal. Lincoln must grunt a half-hearted protest – _too damn early, go back to sleep, Sara_ – but he doesn’t stand a chance against her, not when she’s lying on top of him and rubbing down, languid and silky from the night. She straddles his lap, kisses his neck and half-whispers half-pants into his ear.

Michael doesn’t need to imagine or picture what’s going on because he’s been there, done that so many times; in Lincoln’s shoes, on the receiving end of Sara’s lavish attention. His blood rushes downward, and he bunches the sheet into his fists to fight the instinctive urge of letting his hands move down. He won’t be that sleazy or pathetic.

Lincoln’s initial grunt of protestation is followed with pleased groans, which are in their turn answered by Sara’s breathy gasps and by the irregular thumps of the bedpost pushed against the wall. Michael rolls out of bed, puts on the first pair of pants and shirt he finds and makes a beeline for the beach.

\- - - - -

Hearing them is a weirdly agreeable torment. The complicity, the affection and pleasure they find in one another, he can only cherish that; he loves both of them enough to cherish what they share through him, beyond him, and sometimes despite him. Not to mention there’s always the absurd and inappropriate satisfaction he experiences knowing he’s the one who got them closer. Sometimes too close for his possessive side; it’s a twisted kind of victory.

He sits near the water, where the sand is moist and scratchy beneath the palms of his hands, stares at the ocean and still hears the grunts, gasps and thumps filling the bedroom. It’s impossible. He’s walked too far away from the house, but that doesn’t matter; he can still hear the two of them. Some of those Sunday nights, he can even feel and smell them, embedded in his flesh and soul that they are.

He covers his ears with his hands, fingers splayed and squeezing his skull, and the sounds become even clearer, sharper, untouched by the noise of the surf and the night. It’s a lesser evil.

\- - - - -

The Sunday nights, Sara and Lincoln’s, are the oddest aspect of an already odd arrangement. Michael’s not even sure they started doing anything for months when they were alone. Fucking him together or fucking together and having him watch when there was the three of them was one thing; having sex when it was only the two of them was an entirely different story. He won’t ask; they wouldn’t tell.

But from the moment Linc pointed out it was not only about Michael; from the moment Sara opened him to offer him to Linc; from the moment Michael admitted to himself that what they have, what they were, was more than a mere addition of small pieces; the Sunday nights became inevitable. Loop closed, circle perfect.

\- - - - -

 _Not_ hearing them is worse. Or maybe better, go figure. It’s not as if he could see everything in black and white here, right? It’s rather rich shades of silver-grey – with touches of dawn-like pink once a week.

He can handle the sexual intimacy. Heck, he relishes the sexual intimacy; he gets aroused watching, hearing, and picturing them. Why wouldn’t he? They’re beautiful alone, beautiful together.

The other kinds of intimacy, though? It’s not that he can’t bear them; it’s that they faze him. Because of their implications, they frighten, fascinate and appeal to him all at once. Disconcerting to realize that Lincoln met Sara before he did; that they have way too many dark zones in common; they laugh at the same silly jokes he doesn’t always get; fight each other dirtier than he could have imagined and make up with one knowing glance; roll their eyes at some of his obsessions, but never ever take them lightly; know how to undo him and put him together again, and are both aware how much he loves it.

The friendship, the rivalry, the familial bond, albeit not unpleasant, are trickier to handle than the sexual intimacy.

So the Sunday nights they don’t make love but chat – low voices, hissing curses and muffled laughs filtering through the door – or actually _sleep_ together, against each other... Those Sunday nights make him think endlessly, brain working frenziedly.

\- - - - -

The bungalow is quiet again when he comes back. He pours three big glasses of juice and heads for the bedrooms.

Stealing a glance inside the bedroom is no big deal; their door is still half open, after all, framing them like a pretty picture. Lincoln is awake, Sara sprawled out on him, her eyes closed and her breathing even; her long hair is plastered to her cheek and back where the skin is still glossy with dampness, her legs and arms curled around Lincoln. Pretty picture; enticing picture. Linc looks up at him and moves in a way that could be a shrug if Sara wasn’t pinning him down. Not apologizing, though, never apologizing.

“She’s like an octopus,” Linc says. “Just... feeling damn nicer.”

Michael nods – because yes, she is, and yes, she does – and doesn’t trespass the threshold. It’s an invisible frontier he stretches above to set two of the glasses on the dresser. He squints in disapproval when Lincoln motions him to come inside; he whispers about schedule and Sunday nights and doesn’t budge.

“Technically, it’s Monday morning,” Sara rasps lazily against Lincoln’s chest.

Right. The sky is grey-blue and pink in the east, soft light streaming inside through the windows and casting a gentle glow on her bare shoulders and back.

“Rise of the octopus,” Lincoln announces. “I thought you’d be sleeping for at least another couple of hours.”

“Try harder.”

Lincoln swallows down a ‘Bite me’ because he knows her – she could take him at his word; and also because she’s still limp and damp, dripping with pleasure. It’s not as if she actually meant what she said.

Michael doesn’t even try to suppress a smirk; nor to pretend he doesn’t _want_ to come inside, even less so when Sara holds out her hand and asks – pleads for him – to come here. He steps in and leans down to kiss the palm of her hand. Her fingers stroke him, trail down his cheek and tug on his collar because he’s not moving fast enough.

He strips down. He takes his time, not to tease or taunt, but because he’s too focused on them to disrobe quickly and efficiently. Clothes smelling like sea air come off, and he bends over slightly, erection rekindled by their presence and their interest.

They scoot to make room for him in the bed; his head spins as he joins them, brain fogged by need and want. His hands and mouth skim, claim and kiss of their own volition, fingers spread wide and lips parted to touch and taste as much skin as possible. They chuckle under his caresses; they chuckle but they also lean into his touch and hold onto one another. Too much. Good. He likes having them so close to losing it.

Sara calls him greedy – she often does, she’s always right – but she lets out a desperate moan when he slides down the mattress and pushes his tongue into her, just where Lincoln was minutes ago. He tastes them, their releases sticky and bitter-sweet on his lips, and gets an appreciative “Kinky bastard” from his brother for this. Lincoln lets Sara roll off him and urges Michael up, hands grabbing and pulling with resolve to take him into his mouth. He sucks, sucks until Michael arches and grabs the bedpost.

Sara can’t help a faint groan. She rises up on her knees and murmurs into Michael’s ear about _love_ and _hot_ and _pleasure_ before molding herself against his back. She’s all warm and soft curves, breasts and stomach to his back, matching his every move and shift.

“Come on, Michael, quit holding off,” she whispers.

He is holding off, he admits, he doesn’t want this to end. Although of course, it has to end if he wants to do it all over again, with just a subtle variation, and another one, and another... Sara is kneading his ass with both hands and grazing his jaw with her teeth. She’s pushy, gently pushy, but pushy all the same, both physically and verbally. He loves it when she’s like that; she knows it. He thrusts a bit harder into Lincoln’s mouth; Lincoln welcomes him.

“You think it feels good for you?” she starts again. “Do you even know how much Lincoln loves it?” Lincoln won’t talk, lips and tongue working skillfully, but the sparkle in his eyes seconds her assertion. “How much I love it? Love _you_? Both of us? Let us have this, Michael.”

It’s what he wants to hear; it’s what he likes to hear; it doesn’t mean she’s not stating the truth. Lincoln agrees with her if the way he grips Michael’s hips and eggs him on means anything.

It’s a freefall of the best kind; the living evidence of what he was thinking earlier, how they can undo him and how much he revels in it. His head is still spinning when he collapses next to Linc. Too hard and too fast, so good, so damn better than anything else he’s ever had before them. He closes his eyes to Sara and Lincoln kissing and dragging him into their kiss, their embrace. He kisses back; soft and lazy for now.

Later. Later, when the sun is high in the sky, or setting tonight, he will trap Lincoln between Sara and him; and after, he will squish Sara between Linc and him; crush both of them beneath him either way. He will give them a taste of their own medicine and show them how it feels to be so totally owned, pleasure and love overwhelming, body and soul too tight to contain them. For a few blissful instants, he will stop thinking altogether, drown even deeper in them, and he will just show them.

\- - - - -

Sunday nights always do this to him: frenzied thinking, frenzied need for both of them to the point of pain-pleasure. Maybe it doesn’t come from the indecent paradox of his possessiveness for the two of them; maybe it comes from the brief void, from the desperate attempt and delicious perspective to fill it again and again, and...

 _Ad libitum_.

-Fin-


End file.
